Lost

Ali clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She's trying to make a decision. “I'm owed a few weeks long-service leave. Maybe I could help, Sir.”

“No. Don't jeopardize your career.”

“What career?”

“Seriously, you don't owe me any favors.”

She glances at the TV. The gray square of light reflects in her eyes.

“You probably think this sounds pretty wet, Sir, but I've always looked up to you. It's not easy being a woman in the Met but you never treated me any differently. You gave me a chance.”

“They should have promoted you.”

“That's not your fault. When you get out of here, maybe you should come and stay with me . . . in the spare room. I can keep you safe. I know you're going to say no, Sir, because you think you don't need my help or you're worried about getting me in trouble, but don't just dismiss the idea. I think it's a good one.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“What did you say?”

“I said thank you.”

“Oh! Right. Jolly good.”

Ali wipes her hands on her jeans and looks relieved. Another streak of lightning paints the room white, taking a snapshot of the moment.

I tell her to go home and rest because in a few hours I'm leaving the hospital. Despite Keebal's efforts, I'm not under arrest. The police are here to protect me, not to hold me. I don't care what the doctors say or what Campbell Smith might do. I want to go home, collect my diary and find Rachel Carlyle.

From now on, I'm not going to rely on my memory coming back. It might never happen. Facts, not memories, solve cases. Facts, not memories, will tell me what happened to Mickey Carlyle. They say a bad cop can't sleep because his conscience won't let him and a good cop can't sleep because there's still a piece of the puzzle missing.

I don't think I'm a bad cop. Maybe I'll find that out, too.

8

Dr. Bennett is walking backward down the corridor in his Cuban-heeled cowboy boots.

“You're not supposed to leave. This is madness. Think about your leg.”

“I feel fine.”

He puts his hand over the button for the lift. “You're under police protection, you can't leave.”

I pretend to stumble and he reaches out to catch me. At the same moment I stab the walking stick against the down arrow. “Sorry, Doc, but I've arranged my own protection.” I motion to Ali, who's carrying my belongings in a plastic bag. That's all I want to take out of here.

For the first time since the shooting I feel like my old self. I'm a detective not a victim. Members of the staff begin appearing in the corridor. Word is spreading. They've come to say goodbye. I shake hands and mumble “Thank you” while I wait for the lift to arrive.

The doors open and Maggie emerges. She looks like a jovial panda with black eyes and a bandaged nose. I don't know what to say to her.

“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”

“No.”

Ali produces a bunch of flowers and Maggie beams, throwing her arms around me, crushing the blooms against my chest. I've been a pain in the arse and managed to put her in a hospital bed but she still wants to hug me. I'll never understand women.

Downstairs, rocking on a walking stick, I cross the foyer. My leg is getting stronger and if I concentrate really hard I look like someone with a pebble in his shoe rather than a bullet wound. More nurses and doctors wish me good luck. I'm a celebrity—the detective who survived an assassination attempt. I want my fifteen minutes of fame to be over.

The place is crawling with police officers, guarding the entrances and rooftops. They're wearing black body armor and carrying automatic weapons. None of them knows what to do. They're supposed to be guarding me but now I'm leaving.

Ali leads the way, taking me through an exit door and down concrete stairs to the parking garage. As I cross toward her car, I notice John Keebal leaning against a pillar. He doesn't approach. Instead he cracks a peanut and drops the shells into a neat pile at his feet.

Briefly leaving Ali, I walk over to him.

“Are you visiting a sick granny or waiting for me?”

“Thought I'd give you a ride home but I guess you're covered,” he replies, giving Ali the once-over. “Bit young for you, isn't she?”

“That'd be none of your business.”

We look at each other for a few moments and Keebal grins. I'm getting too old for these swinging-dick contests.

“What exactly do you want?”

“I thought you might invite me back to your place.”

“Couldn't you get a warrant?”

“Seems not.”

What a nerve! He can't convince a judge to let him search my house and then expects me to say yes anyway. It's all part of building a case. If I say no Keebal will say I'm being uncooperative. Fuck him!

“Listen, under normal circumstances, you know I'd happily let you come over. If I'd known I'd have cleaned up the place and bought a cake but I haven't been home in a few weeks. Maybe some other time.”

I pivot on the walking stick and rejoin Ali.

She raises an eyebrow. “I didn't know he was a friend of yours.”

“You know how it is—everyone is worried about me.”